


Through A Glass Darkly

by Brenda



Category: Supernatural, Supernatural/The Crow (Crossover), The Crow - All Media Types
Genre: Case Fic, Dean's Not Dealing Well With John's Death, F/M, Gen, Gen Work, Neither is Sam, POV Dean Winchester, POV Sam Winchester, Protective Dean Winchester, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-25
Updated: 2014-03-25
Packaged: 2018-01-16 23:08:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1365145
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brenda/pseuds/Brenda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>When all else fails, fall back on what you know. </i> </p><p>Or: Dean & Sam, still reeling from John's death, take on a case that hits a little too close to home.  Takes place right after 2x02 - <i>"Everyone Loves A Clown"</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Through A Glass Darkly

**Author's Note:**

  * For [aheartenflamed](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=aheartenflamed).



> Originally written in July of 2007 for the SPN Summergen Fic challenge. The prompt was: _Dean sympathizes with a Demon or a Supernatural being._

_It's not death if you refuse it._  
\- The Crow

 

Every night, Dean dreamed the same dream. Every night, Dean dreamed the same nightmare. His father, lying broken and still upon a sterile hospital bed, gazing at him in reproach until the last breath left his body. The face of every spirit and demon and creature Dean had ever hunted crowding around him in the too-small room, waiting with smacking lips and barely concealed hunger to get him alone.

One Winchester down, two to go.

***

Bobby thought they were crazy for taking on this job. Dean thought Bobby was an old woman, and this is what Dad would have wanted. Sam said he just wanted to get the hell out of South Dakota. Dean knew they were both choking on the memory of ash on their tongues as they'd watched their father's body burn.

"You sure about this?" Bobby asked, for the tenth time, as they packed the car.

"Can't stick around here forever," Dean replied. His voice was rusty with disuse. Hadn't been much use in talking lately. Sam had said it all a few days before anyhow.

Too little, too late. But all they had left. If this was truly their family legacy, then Dean would see it through.

"You know I don't mind having you boys around," Bobby continued, pushing his battered John Deere cap up from a lined, sweaty forehead.

"It's not about that," Sam said, and clasped Bobby's shoulder. "We need to do this."

"Stubborn as your damn daddy. The both of you."

Dean wasn't sure if it was a compliment or insult. In the end, he decided it was both.

***

They'd been on the road for over an hour before either of them spoke. It may as well have been a year. Death – and not just any death, but a sacrifice (Sam wasn't stupid, he knew, or thought he had a damn good idea, what had happened with Dad) – had done what over two years apart hadn't managed to do. Sam no longer recognized his own brother, and, without Dean's unshakable foundation to shore him up, Sam was beginning to realize he no longer knew himself.

 _Curae leves loquuntur, ingentes stupent_. Slight griefs talk, great ones are speechless. Sam wished, with everything in him, that he could find words – any words at all – to see them through this.

It was Dean who finally broke the heavy silence.

"Tell me again what we're after."

Sam heard the unspoken _and why_ as if Dean had shouted it. Sam didn't know what to tell him, really. He had no idea why they were chasing this job that Ash had carelessly tossed in his lap on their last visit to the Roadhouse. But it beat sitting around and waiting for the fates to decide his life for him. Sam was done with reacting.

It didn't mean he wasn't grateful, though, that Dean had taken the first step, even if it was to talk about the hunt. He flipped open his notebook, mourned, yet again, the loss of the laptop. "Ash said it looked like it could be a crow."

Dean tapped his thumbs against the steering wheel, keeping time with the Supertramp song playing in the background. "How the hell'd he manage to track it? They disappear between bodies."

"He wouldn't say. But he seemed pretty sure."

"Peachy."

"Anyway, he might be onto something. I did a little bit of research into the area where he says the crow showed up. And all the signs are there. The owners of one of the houses met a violent death, the victims were a couple, the woman died first, the guys that did it got away clean, and the first anniversary of the deaths is just a couple of days away."

"Huh." Dean let out an amused chuckle. "Might be more to Ash's methods than meets the eye."

"Guess we'll see," Sam replied.

The job first, always the job. Sam wondered if this was all they truly had between them. He was too scared to ask.

***

Downtown Detroit reminded Sam of pictures he'd seen of Baghdad or Sarajevo after the bombings. Burnt out husks of buildings towered above them, twisted hunks of steel with busted-out windows that loomed like malevolent spirits. They drove through jagged streets filled with potholes, and every time Sam looked out the window, the sparse crowds moved with a listless energy that screamed of defeat. Rain continued falling, beating a steady tattoo on the car, and even Sam could appreciate the irony. Death and rain, the peanut butter and jelly of the goth set.

"Nice place," Dean remarked.

"Yeah. We should retire here." Sam consulted his Treo. "Turn left at the light. The police station's half a block up."

They parked in the miniscule lot and Dean shrugged into his black suit jacket, tugging at his tie as he glanced in the rearview mirror to give himself a final once-over. "Hate wearing this thing."

"Add it to the list."

"Maybe I should stay back. Neighborhood doesn't look all that hot." Dean didn't meet Sam's eyes. "Make sure nothing happens to the car."

"Dude, seriously. We're in front of a _police_ station."

"How Opie are you, man?"

Sam just glared. No fucking way he was going in there by himself.

"Okay, okay," Dean relented, holding up his hands. "I'm coming."

The officer on duty barely glanced up from his magazine when they flashed their fake badges. "Who you need?" he asked, in a bored voice.

Sam consulted his notebook again. "A, uh, a Captain Hook."

"Third floor." The guy jerked a thumb towards the stairs. "That way. Elevator's broke."

"Of course it is," Dean muttered.

The third floor seemed to have a lot more action going on. Phones ringing, people bustling to and fro, smells of stale coffee and stale sweat – Sam could tell this was the heart of the building.

Dean asked a passing officer where Hook's desk was and the guy pointed towards the back corner of the room. Away from the worst of the noise.

"Nice that they gave him his own office," Dean remarked, and Sam bit back the laugh.

Hook, a large, hulking black man with closely shorn hair and an ill-kempt mustache, glanced up, frowning, when Dean and Sam stopped in front of him. Sam could see worry lines etched across a strong-jawed face, and wondered what demons Hook took home with him at the end of the day. "Can I help you?" The voice was as no-nonsense as the rest of him.

"Captain Hook, huh? Any relation?" Dean flashed his FBI badge along with a shit-eating grin that Hook didn't return. "Agent Clapton. This is my partner, Agent Baker."

Hook spent a few hair-raising minutes studying the badges. Sam inwardly breathed a sigh of relief when he finally nodded. "Clapton, you said. Any relation?"

"I wish, dude." Dean waited a beat. "We're here for the Eric Draven and Shelly Webster file."

"Why?"

"Let's just say we're working on a lead and leave it at that. The file?"

"Yeah, alright." Hook stood and moved towards a file cabinet stuffed to capacity. He flipped through a few until he found the one he wanted, then tossed it on the desk. "Not much there, unfortunately. Everyone knows who did it, but no one'll talk. Top Dollar runs this part of town and everyone in it."

"That's alright, we're not really interested in the local crime lord," Dean said, and handed the file to Sam.

"If you're not here for Top Dollar, then why do you care about Eric and Shelly?"

Dean flashed a small smile. "Sorry."

"Right." Hook didn't roll his eyes, but Sam could feel the disdain radiating from him in thick waves. "Fucking Feds, man. We done? I got real work."

"Yeah, thanks," Sam nodded, and held up the file. "We'll, uh, return it as soon as we can."

Hook just grunted, already lost in the mountain of paperwork teetering on his desk.

"It's the friendliness I love most about the big cities," Dean said, after Sam tucked the file under his jacket and they made the mad dash back to the Impala, futilely doing their best to dodge the resurgent rain.

"Yeah, because you're a barrel of laughs these days," Sam remarked, and shook the worst of the water from his hair once he had shut his door.

Dean glared as he slid behind the wheel. "Dude, grab a fucking towel."

"It's leather, it'll dry."

"Heathen," Dean sighed, and turned the key. The engine rumbled to life, audible even over the thunder. "Where to now?"

Sam glanced through Hook's folder. "Crime scene first, I guess. We should have asked where they were buried."

"Shouldn't be too hard to find out," Dean said, and pulled out of the parking lot while Sam looked up directions on his Treo.

***

By the time they'd gone four blocks, they'd both shed their jackets and ties. The rain, thankfully, had also trickled to a halt. Four hours in the city, and already Dean was sick of the rain. He was sick of a lot of things. Hard as he was trying, his heart wasn't in this hunt.

The thought that he may never get that thrill back scared him worse than his dreams.

The house was nothing special. One of those old Victorian types, at the end of a dead-end street, old and dilapidated, but with signs of recent repairs – a brick fireplace along one wall, three bedrooms, two baths, and the scariest staircase Dean had ever seen. The plaster was cracked, wallpaper peeling, floorboards warped, but the furniture – and everything else – hadn't been touched. A high heel was carelessly tossed next to a barstool, wedding invitations were still scattered on the table, and the sheets on the bed in the master bedroom were still invitingly mussed, as though the owners were simply out for awhile, and would be back to slide between them.

"Creepy," Sam remarked softly.

Dean could only nod. A life together interrupted by tragedy. Dean wondered if Sam was seeing the life he'd built with Jess. If he was remembering happier days, when he'd almost been normal.

Sam picked up a couple of sun-spotted photographs from an end table, and flipped through them, his bangs hiding his expression. He finally showed one to Dean. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible. "They...they looked happy, didn't they?"

Dean took a look at the couple – the girl was petite, blonde and very pretty, the man well-built and dark-haired, both of them wrapped around each other with blissful smiles. "Yeah," he managed, thinking of the way Sam and Jess had looked together, mixing with fuzzier memories of Mom and Dad. "Real happy."

The next moment, they heard a clattering noise from the kitchen. Both of them reached for their guns, and Dean silently motioned Sam to take point as they made their noiseless way down the hall. Sam went high, Dean low, when they got to the door, but the only thing that greeted them was a very fluffy white cat who meowed plaintively at them.

Sam held a hand to his heart, then let out a short laugh and relaxed his grip on his gun. "Fuck me."

"Thing scared the shit out of me." Dean gave the cat, now twining its way around Dean's legs, an exasperated look. "I don't have any food, man."

"I don't think it's food he's after."

In one smooth, fast motion, they both raised their weapons in the direction of the voice. "The hell?" Sam muttered.

Dean didn't blame him. The guy (and he hoped like hell it was a guy, and not something worse) was creepy as fuck – from his spiky mop of jet-black hair to his face, which was painted white in a bizarre sort of clown get-up, to his leather jacket, leather pants, and jack boots. The two guns in his hands were pointing steadily at Sam and Dean.

"I don't remember inviting guests," the stranger said.

"Who the hell are you?"

The stranger lifted his gun an inch in reply. Dean followed suit. The dude may look like a demonic goth-clown (and what was _up_ with the clowns these days), but he seemed solid enough. And if he was solid, then Dean could kill him.

He shared a quick glance with Sam, then back at the man in front of them. "I'm going to ask you one more time. Who _are_ you?"

"Do you not know?" The stranger's voice took on a sing-song quality. "I am your blackest nightmare, plucking even the stars from the sky until there is no light left, just the sound of your own screams echoing in the dark."

Creepy _and_ crazy. Figured. Dean ignored the small shiver that rolled down his spine. Fear he could deal with. He'd been living with it most of his life. "We're not playing around."

"Neither am I. Shoot if you must satisfy your curiosity. But it won't do you any good." The stranger cocked both guns. "You have 60 seconds before I open fire."

"You're Eric, aren't you?" Sam asked suddenly, and Dean did a double-take. _This_ freakshow was the same guy as the one in the photograph?

"Not anymore. Now I am Vengeance, now I am Death. _And nothing can or shall content my soul, 'til I am even'd with him_."

"From Othello, right?" Sam asked. Dean wondered how the hell he knew that shit.

"Very good." What might have been a smile passed over the stranger's face, twisted the black lipstick around his mouth into an odd sort of grimace. "45 seconds."

"If you're quoting that passage, you have to remember what happened to Iago, man."

"He had his revenge."

"And it cost him everything."

"I've already lost everything. There's nothing more to take. You have 20 seconds. I suggest you run."

The hell they would, Dean thought. He'd never run from anything in his life, and if he had to pit his skills against anyone else's, well, those were damn good odds.

"Dean," Sam said, in a firm voice. "We're leaving."

"The hell we are."

"Now." There was no room for argument.

Sparing one last look for the stranger, Dean backed off after his brother, muttering and cursing the entire time.

***

"The fuck was that about?" Dean asked, once they'd taken off down the road. Running like a couple of goddamn cowards when they had a bead on the guy...

Sam pressed the end button on his cell. "Eric and Shelly are buried at Trinity. Three miles up, then turn right on Mount Elliott," he said, ignoring Dean's question.

"Sam –"

"Look, let's just figure out what we're dealing with first."

"Yeah." Dean took a deep, calming breath. And another. Sam was right, much as he hated to admit it. Just like any other job, he told himself.

Except the asshole had pointed a gun at Sam. And that made it personal.

***

The clouds were breaking up by the time they made it to the cemetery and the sun was making a weak attempt to come out. Sam shook his head when Dean moved towards the trunk. "I don't think we'll be needing the shovels."

Dean shrugged. "Alright. Your gig." He didn't feel much like digging in the mud anyway.

Sam consulted the map the groundskeeper had given him, and Dean followed, keeping a sharp eye out, just in case. When Sam stopped abruptly, Dean followed his gaze. "Huh," was all he said.

"At least now we know we're on the right track," Sam observed, and crouched down, rubbing freshly turned mud in his fingers. The open grave – and open casket – seemed to mock them with its emptiness.

"You don't think another Hunter got here first."

"No." Sam stood and gestured at the rain-spattered tombstone on their left. _Shelly Webster, beloved always_. "I think that thing we ran into was Eric. What'd, um, what'd, y'know, Dad have to say about crows?"

It was the first time either of them had brought Dad up since that day at Bobby's.

Dean took a minute to gather his thoughts, gather himself. "That, uh, that they work kind of like demons, offering deals to the dying. But instead of life, they offer a means to come back for revenge."

"But Eric was dead, right?"

"I guess the report was wrong. The crow must've gotten to him before he actually died."

"Alright, so, who's Eric going after for revenge?"

Dean pointed at Shelly's grave, and, thinking of the wedding invitations he'd seen, made the logical leap. "Whoever did that."

"Right." Sam bowed his head for a handful of moments. Dean didn't ask what – or who – he was thinking about, but he thought he already knew. He just awkwardly stood behind Sam and hoped his presence was somehow enough comfort.

When Sam finally spoke, Dean tried hard not to notice the watery tone. "We need to get a room, make a call to Ash, go through the file."

"Sounds like a plan." Anything was better than standing here and watching Sam wrestle with a ghost that Dean couldn't kill.

***

By their usual standards, the motel they found was positively normal. Dean glanced around in pleased surprise as he tossed his bag on one of the beds. "Not bad. If you don't count the lime green curtains."

"Or the burnt orange carpet."

"It'll be like that one time in Nebraska in that pumpkin patch. You remember?"

"Yeah, I wanted you to capture the Great Pumpkin for me."

"Even though I kept telling you he wasn't real."

Sam cracked his first real smile in weeks. It was like a sunburst after a thunderstorm. "I remember Dad laughed his ass off after he yelled at us for disappearing like that."

"Yeah, it was nice to hear him laugh on Halloween for once," Dean replied softly. Then he slapped his hands on his knees and stood. "So, you hungry?"

"Dean –"

"'Cause I could use a burger." He rubbed his stomach for emphasis, forestalling whatever it was Sam had been about to say. "You, y'know, start with the file, and I'll walk up to the diner, get us some fuel."

Sam didn't have time to reply before Dean was out the door.

***

"So?"

Sam jerked his head up from the papers he'd been reading. Dean gazed back at him, sucking noisily on his straw. He tossed a greasy bag at Sam, who caught it with one hand. Like the earlier conversation had never happened. As brave as his brother was, he was such a fucking coward about some things.

"He's _definitely_ our dude. He and his girlfriend had just been out to celebrate their engagement when their car broke down and some two-bit thugs that run with the local crime boss came across them. They blow Eric away, then, well, Shelly was a pretty girl. You do the math."

"And the crow offered Eric a deal."

"The crow offered Eric a deal."

"Then he's not going to go quietly." Dean leaned against the dresser and munched on a fry. "Ash say how to stop it, short of killing the crow?"

"He didn't know of another way." Sam pursed his lips. "Dean, man, why are we here?"

"This hunt was _your_ idea, Sammy."

"I know, but." Fuck it, may as well say what he'd been thinking since going into that house and seeing a glimpse of what might have been. "Maybe we should get the hell out."

"What, let this guy kill these people?"

"These _people_ raped and murdered his girlfriend. They murdered _him_. Don't you think he's entitled to his vengeance?"

At the question, something inside Dean seemed to snap. "You know what I think?" His voice rose, deepened. "I think that vengeance killed Dad, almost killed me, almost killed you. I think that vengeance killed Jess. I'm _done_ with vengeance, Sam. That's what I think."

"Eric's not going to go after innocents. He didn't kill us when he had the chance."

"His fight ended the night he died."

"You really think that?"

Something flickered, just for a moment, behind Dean's eyes. "Soldiers die. That's why there are others to take their place."

The argument was interrupted by the squawking of the police scanner on the nightstand between the beds. Dean opened his mouth to speak, but Sam held up a hand until the transmission ended. "Tin Tin…" He eyed the police report. "That was one of the guys."

"Then he's started." Dean stood and snagged his beat-up leather jacket from the chair. "C'mon, man, he might still be in the area."

Focus on the job, Sam told himself. It was hollow comfort.

***

They parked behind one of the police cruisers and made their way past the yellow tape at the end of the alleyway. And into a bloodbath. Sam counted four bodies on the pavement, all lying brokenly in ever-widening pools of blood. The stench of copper, human waste and overflowing dumpsters assaulted his senses. He didn't see any sign of Eric or the crow.

"Hey." Dean snagged the arm of a passing uniformed officer and showed his FBI badge. "What the hell happened?"

"Gang fight, from the looks of it." The officer was pasty white with shock. Sam wondered if this was his first kill. "Dude against the wall, that's a guy named Tin Tin..."

"The one missing half his head?"

The officer jerkily nodded at Dean. "Uh, anyway, looks like he shot those three –" he pointed at the other bodies "—and then was shot himself."

Sam surveyed the scene. An old saying flickered into his head - _Fear is for the enemy. Fear and bullets_ \-- but he couldn't remember who had said it or why. Just that it seemed strangely appropriate as the soulless eyes of the dead stared unflinchingly up at him. "Who shot him?"

The officer shrugged. "Dunno yet. Still working on it."

"Right." Dean let him go and watched him walk away. "You still think we should back off this job?" he asked Sam.

Sam shook his head. "I don’t think Eric killed all of these people. Just Tin Tin." It was a hunch, but one that pulled deep in his gut.

"Are you guessing or hoping?"

"Both," Sam admitted, and prayed he was right.

"Well, however it went down, innocent people died. By your account, this Shelly chick fell in love with a poet." Dean's sweep encompassed the entire alley. "You really think this whole Charles Bronson act is what she'd want for him?"

Sam thought about the photograph he'd seen of Eric and Shelly. Thought about another one, tucked in his wallet and rarely taken out since he'd been a kid. "You think that Dad dragging us around the country and wrecking our childhood is what Mom would have wanted for us?"

Dean's fact tightened. "We saved people."

"Well, maybe Eric is, too."

***

"So, who's next on the hit list?" Dean asked, as he pulled the Impala out onto the street.

"Uh, let's see, there was Tin Tin, Top Dollar, Tom Tom –"

"Come on, man, you're making this shit up. Tin Tin, Tom Tom, what is this, some sort of gang for the department of redundancy department?"

"Dude, I'm just reading what's on the sheet. Funboy and T-Bird round out the list."

Dean snorted. "Funboy and T-Bird. What, no Mustang Sally or Tap Tap?"

Sam ignored him. "According to Hook's file, Top Dollar holes up at some dive bar called the Gin Mill, Funboy's shacking up at some junkie's place over on the south end, and Tom Tom flops in an abandoned warehouse, uh, about four blocks from us, it looks like."

"Guess we're seeing him first, then."

"To do what? Save him so he can rape and kill again?"

"Maybe."

"Dean, do you have any idea how long this guy's rap sheet is?"

"Maybe I don't care," Dean snapped back, fists white around the steering wheel. "Playing God isn't my job. _Stopping_ people from playing God is."

Under the no-nonsense tone, Sam heard the message loud and clear. Do the job and get out.

***

They could both smell the stench of freshly spilled blood the second they walked into the crumbling, dank, rotted out building. Sam was sure even the rats would keep clear of a place like this.

"Think we should check for survivors?"

Dean snorted, the sound abrasive, and shook his head. "We're too late," he stated, staring intently down the hallway like he could conjure up Eric by sheer will.

"He might still be here," Sam replied, even though he didn't believe it.

Dean seemed mollified anyway. "Yeah. I'll check the exits, you look around here, just in case he's skulking about in the shadows like Batman or Nightwing or, y'know, something."

Sam nodded. Dean took off out the front door, and was immediately swallowed by the night. Sam waited another few seconds, then followed the scent to the basement stairs. He started down, gun cocked and ready (for all the good he thought it'd do), every sense attuned to his surroundings. And Eric still managed to almost run him over.

For a long, timeless moment, they just stared at each other, Eric's dark gaze penetrating some broken place deep inside Sam's soul, filling the cracks and crevices with clarity and a terrible purpose. _I am Vengeance, I am Death._

Was this really all he and Dean had left to look forward to?

"You're too late," Eric finally said. His painted-white cheeks were flecked with blood and bits of flesh. He idly wiped the long blade of his sword across the leg of his pants. It was saturated, almost black, with blood.

"I figured we were," Sam answered cautiously, keeping an eye on the sword, and casting a quick glance around for a glimpse of the crow. No sign. Just his luck. "Eric, uh, dude, listen –"

"No." Eric didn't move, but the air around him dropped to frigid. "Listening is for men who breathe."

"Vengeance isn't the answer," Sam said, and wondered who the hell he was trying to convince.

" _One owes respect to the living. To the dead, one only owes the truth._ "

"Voltaire," Sam ground out, impatiently. "What is this, another test?"

"You know what it means?"

"Yes." Or thought he did at one time. These days, Sam couldn't be sure he knew much of anything. In a world that didn't have John Winchester, there wasn't much that made sense.

"Then you should know vengeance is the _only_ answer. You cannot stop me. All you can do is fail." The next instant, Eric seemed to be swallowed by the shadows. Sam couldn't even hear his footsteps.

He was still frowning at the space where Eric had been when Dean stepped back through the door and into place beside him. "Nada outside. You see anything?"

"He was here."

Dean went from relaxed to alert in a heartbeat. "Where?"

"He's gone now. Muttered some cryptic bullshit, then disappeared on me." It wasn't exactly the truth, but Sam didn't know how to explain the conversation to Dean. Blood bound them tighter than any chains, but they had never been what anyone would call friends. Hell, they didn't even like each other a lot of the time.

"Any sign of the crow?"

"Not a one."

"I am seriously beginning to hate this guy," Dean said, and kicked the wall in frustration. "He's like a mime from hell."

***

That night, Sam dreamed of Jess. Statuesque and breathtaking, wearing the same frayed cut-offs and bright blue t-shirt she'd been wearing the day they'd met, sitting on the same park bench. When Sam sat down beside her and took her hand, he noticed it was ice-cold.

 _Why didn't you save me?_ she asked in the smallest voice he'd ever heard. Her eyes were bright with unshed tears.

 _I'm sorry,_ he said. _I'm here now. I'll avenge you, I swear._

 _It's too late._ She turned to face him. The next moment, she burst into flames.

 _Jess!!_ he shouted, but it was like an invisible force was holding him in place, forcing him to watch as beloved features flared bright, then melted right in front of his horrified gaze...

 

He woke up to Dean shaking on his shoulder, concerned features slightly fuzzy around the edges. "Dude, come on, snap out of it."

Sam scrambled to a sitting position, blinking rapidly, and kicked the tangled, sweat-damp sheets to the foot of the bed. Dean hovered above him, face creased with sleep, boxers and t-shirt wrinkled. He was still frowning. "You okay?"

"Maybe," Sam drawled, testing the word. He couldn't be sure if he was lying.

"What was it?" Dean asked, settling on the side of his bed. "Another vision?"

"No. Regular nightmare." Sam barked out a short laugh. "Stupid to be relieved by that."

"No, it's not."

Sam took comfort in the sympathy in his brother's voice. "Dean...are we ever going to talk about Dad?"

Instantly, Dean's face shuttered. "The middle of the fucking night and you want to have an Oprah moment?"

"If not now, then _when_?" Sam asked, desperate for _something_. They couldn't go on like this.

"I don't fucking know when, alright."

"The longer we wait, the worse it's gonna get."

"Yeah, well, the job comes first," Dean shrugged.

"And last," Sam fired back, sarcasm dripping from every word. He felt like hitting something. Preferably Dean. "But it's not _everything_."

The look Dean gave him chilled him to the bone. "It is now."

***

"Anything?" Dean asked the next morning, when Sam slid into the booth across from him.

Sam shook his head and picked up his fork, scooping a bite of hashbrowns. Back to the job. His eyes felt heavy, gritty, from the lack of sleep. Hadn't seen the point in trying after Dean had woken him up – it was easier to fight demons while awake. "Some pawn shop burned to the ground, but that's it. Guess even the dead need rest."

Dean waited until the waitress refilled their coffee cups before speaking again. "Anniversary's today, so he'll need to finish tonight. Crows don't hunt in daylight, so we sit tight for now, then I say we hit him up at his place at dusk, see if we can trap him or the crow."

"You really still want to do this?"

The look Dean gave him was flat, hard. "I don't quit on a job, Sam."

"It's my job, remember."

"That you dragged my ass into, so deal with it," Dean stated, and shoveled a forkful of eggs into his mouth, averting further conversation.

***

Dean's plan was a sound one. But they hadn't counted on Eric having a better one. They saw the billowing clouds of smoke before they reached the end of the street, but the fire had already done its job. The house was nothing more than fiery rubble.

They climbed out of the car to survey the damage. Neither bothered calling 911. There was nothing to save.

"I'll say one thing for him," Dean remarked, surveying the ruins with a pragmatic shrug. "He's thorough."

Sam kicked at a piece of still-smoldering wood. Ashes to ashes, he thought. Everything in his life turned to ashes in the end. "You think Dad would have...I mean, if he hadn't had us...?"

"Maybe." Dean shrugged, then shook his head. For the first time, Sam noticed that Dean had lost weight. Made the shadows under his eyes look even deeper. "Seems to me he did something equally dumb, though."

"You think saving you was dumb?"

Dean didn't answer.

"I think Dad would have let this one go."

Dean looked at him like he'd lost his mind. Hell, maybe he had. Nothing made much sense these days. "Did you _ever_ know Dad at all?" Dean asked, but the scorn was undercut with a sharper edge of something else, something Sam couldn't identify. "Hunting things like this was his _life_. No way he'd back off a hunt. No way."

"He would if he had reason," Sam argued. He couldn't explain to himself (didn't want to, if he was honest) why this was so important. But it was, and this might be the last chance he'd have to make Dean see reason. "He did it for us. And I think he'd understand what Eric's doing better than anyone."

Dean's jaw tightened as he squeezed his hands into tight fists. "It's still murder, Sam."

"It's _justice_." Sam believed it with everything in him. "Haven't we been chasing that our whole lives? Find the demon that killed Mom, put an end to all this? _Justice_ , man."

"There's no such thing."

The defeat in Dean's voice scared Sam more than anything he could remember in a long time. "You didn't use to believe that."

"Things change."

"Please, Dean." He wasn't above begging, wasn't above using every trick he'd ever learned. Some part of him knew if they saw this job through, they'd lose something even more important. "Please. I'm _begging_ you. Let's just go."

The silence was long, all-encompassing, swallowed them both in its totality. Sam watched his brother's profile, watched the shadows dance over features he knew as well as he knew his own. Not for the first time, he wondered what Dean was thinking. Not for the first time, he realized he didn't know his brother at all. The Winchesters were too good at keeping secrets.

When Dean finally spoke, his voice was so quiet that Sam could barely hear him. "We wait by his grave. But, I swear to you right now," he continued, cutting over Sam's heartfelt murmur of thanks, "if he's not back by dawn, I _will_ waste him. I'm not fucking around."

"He'll come back. He won't leave her." Sam was as certain of this as he was his own name.

***

One good thing about the way Dean and Sam had been brought up was that Dean had no problems hanging around a bunch of graves all night with nothing but his thoughts for company. After they'd been sitting in silence for over an hour, Dean had told Sam to get some sleep, he'd take watch. Sam had looked like he'd wanted to argue, but, thankfully, hadn't. Letting Sam get some rest was the least Dean figured he could do.

He shifted, calves starting to cramp from standing in one place too long, and his boots sank slightly in the mud. A quick glance let him know that Sam was still sacked out inside the Impala, head lolled back against the headrest, mouth open the way it did when he was in deep sleep. No twitching or moaning or thrashing, which meant no dreams or visions, for which Dean was grateful.

The quiet was broken only by the soft hooting of owls, the faint chirp of some insect or another. Around him, Dean could see bright swatches of flowers dotting some of the graves. Would anyone put flowers on his grave when he was gone? Would he even have one, or would some other Hunter do for him what he and Sam had done for Dad, and steal his body from the morgue to salt and burn it. Just in case.

Just in case.

"If you're looking to stop me, you're too late."

Dean didn't even flinch at the voice. Just continued to lean against the hood of the Impala, and watched Eric's graceful glide towards him. For the first time, Dean saw the crow, perched alertly on Eric's shoulder.

"I don't think so," Dean replied. "Are they dead?"

Eric nodded. The stark white of his face was still a slight shock. "Every one."

"Feel better?" Dean was surprised to find he honestly wanted to know the answer.

Eric took a minute to reply. Seemed to take some sort of stock. "I feel...at peace."

"Peace." Dean nodded, studied the man before him, tried to reconcile this creature with the laughing man in the photograph. "You think any of us truly find it?"

"I don't know," Eric said, soft, sad smile made grotesque by the hard line of black around his mouth. "But maybe there's peace in the lie." Then he let out a small laugh. "You know, the last thing I ever said to Shelly was a lie. I was on my knees with a gun to the back of my head, and I told her...that everything would be ok. I'm sure she didn't believe me, but maybe it helped her after. Maybe God gave her that much, at least."

"You know the last thing my dad told me?" Dean didn't wait for an answer. He didn't know why he found it easier to confide in a stranger – a dead man – than to his own brother, but he didn't question it, either. "Don't be scared." _Don't be scared_ , Dad had said, just before he'd told Dean that he might have to kill his baby brother. "And I think about that, man, I think about the fact that he probably died to save me, and here he was, knowing he was about to die, and the last thing he did was try to reassure me."

"Even the condemned lie to those they love."

"Yeah, well, the point is, it's _not_ okay." Finally, blessedly, Dean could feel the anger, and he welcomed it like an old friend. "And I am terrified every fucking night that I'm going to go to sleep and wake up to find Sam gone." Gone or taken or worse, and that Dean would be forced to carry out Dad's final order. "Or dead, chasing after the demon that killed our parents without any weapons or even a goddamn plan. And he'd call it honorable, but you know what? There is no such thing as an honorable death," he said, then shook his head as a far-off voice echoed the same words in his head. "Freaky."

"What?"

Dean continued to frown, but the feeling was already starting to dissipate like mist. "Feels like I've said that before."

"Perhaps you have. You've the look of a man that's cheated death."

 _You have no idea_ , Dean wanted to say, but didn't. He'd had enough navel-gazing for the night; hell, for a month. "As long as _you're_ done cheating it, we'll call it even."

"I'm done." Eric's smile was angelic, pure. Dean watched as the crow rose gracefully into the air, then out of sight, swallowed by the darkness. "Shelly's waiting for me."

Dean wanted to ask how Eric was so sure. Faith, probably. Dean wondered what true faith felt like. He'd thought he'd had it once – during those few weeks when he'd been working side by side with Dad and Sam. But, like everything else in his life, it had turned to ash in the end.

 _Solus, ex cineribus resurgam_. I, alone, from ashes, shall rise. Dean could almost hear his father's roughened voice. It was cold comfort, but he'd learned a long time ago to take what he could get.

***

When Sam woke up (mercifully, he hadn't been asleep long enough to dream), the first thing he saw was Dean leaning against the front fender, looking at something just beyond Sam's field of vision. It wasn't until he climbed out and leaned beside his brother that he noticed Eric's grave was filled, pristine, and covered in grass, like nothing had happened.

"It's over, then," he asked, even though he knew the answer.

"Yeah." Dean let out a slow, uneven breath. "It's over."

"Did you...did you talk to him?"

"What's it matter? He's dead, the crow's gone, it's done."

Sam shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket and stared down at the two headstones. Were Eric and Shelly finally together? Was it really over when you accepted death? Was there true peace at the end of it all? "Is it really?"

Dean cast him a sideways glance. "Is what really?"

"Done," Sam answered, then sighed. "Dad may not have chosen this fate, but, man, I gotta tell you, I don't know if I'd be strong enough not to. Not if the demon was still out there."

"Look at me, Sam. _Look_ , alright." Dean waited until Sam turned his head, then paused, seemed to have some sort of inner struggle. "This isn't you," he finally said. "This won't be you."

"You don't know that," Sam argued, jaw set.

"The hell I don't. This guy –"

"Eric."

"Whatever. He didn't have anyone. Alright. You've got me. This _won't_ be you."

For the first time since Dad died, Sam felt the full force of Dean's faith slam through him, warm him with its conviction. For the first time since Dad died, things made sense again. "Promise me, though."

Dean's eyes narrowed. "Promise you what?"

"That I won't end up like that. Promise me you'll salt and burn me."

"No way. No way, man. Uh uh."

"Dean..."

"Jesus, Sam, don't you _get_ it?" Dean snapped, shoving away from the car in an explosion of movement. "We did it for you."

"What're you talking about?"

Dean whirled back around. There was a strange light in his eyes that Sam had never seen before. "Everything me and Dad did. It was to protect you. Keep you safe, make sure you had a shot at normal. He protected _me_ so I could protect _you_. So I don't want to hear anymore bullshit, alright."

Argument after argument tumbled around in Sam's head – ' _You're worth a lot more than this, Dean_ ', ' _You're my brother, which means I'd kill for you, too_ ', – but he knew Dean wouldn't listen. In his own way, Dean was just as stubborn as Dad ever was. "You can't protect me forever," was all he said, instead.

"Maybe not, but it won't stop me from trying," Dean answered, and, in his voice, Sam could hear the echo of Dad's.

"Whatever, man, let's just get on the road."

Dean shrugged, then tossed Sam the keys. "You're driving. I'm going to try to get some sleep."

Once they left the cemetery, Sam pointed the Impala in a random direction, and started driving. He had no idea where they were going, and wasn't sure he cared.

If this was all he had left, he'd learn to embrace it.

***

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Dee, Jo, and Glendaglamazon for the betas and encouragement.


End file.
